“Yeah?”
I said,
“Keefer is hurt.”
“Twenty minutes.”
Click.
Okay. Fuckit, I could do curt.
Sure as shooting, a van showed up on the twenty. A man in his fifties, dressed in a beaten wax coat, not Barbour, flat cap, Wellingtons.
He walked towards me.
I said,
“He’s inside.”
He threw me a look of contempt, as if I thought he thought the man could be anywhere else. He was carrying a black case, went in.
I followed.
He examined Keefer, snapped at me,
“Get a bowl of hot water, clean towels.”
Paused, looked around, amended,
“As clean as possible”
Two hours later, he emerged from the room, his hands swathed in blood.
I pointed to the bathroom, he went in, and — what? — he was whistling.
Emerged, ready to roll, handed me a bottle of pills, said,
“He had a serious cut across his eye, so leave the eye patch there for a day or two. I’ve made a splint to support his busted leg. Try to dissuade him from walking.”
He paused, concerned, then,
“The knife wounds, they are a worry.”
What?
I asked,
“Knife wounds?”
He looked at me like I was an ejit, said,
“I counted seven wounds. Where the hell were you when they were knifing your mate?”
I was well tired of this prick and his condescension. I said,
“Hurling.”
His head snapped round, reevaluating me, then,
“Is that even a sport?”
I could play, said,
“Depends which county you support.”
I looked at the pills, said,
“Jeez, these seem very big.”
He sighed, said,
“Of course. They’re horse tranquilizers.”
Took me a minute, then the penny dropped. I said,
“You’re a veterinarian.”
He pulled on his wax coat, sneered,
“Well detected, Sherlock.”
The next few days I tended to Keefer, changed the dressings, fed him, slowly at first; my specialty:
Irish stew
Real gravy
Carrots
Shitload of good veg
Spuds
And a wee taste of Jameson.
He was able to move to the couch in the front room, give me pointers on the falcon. I was getting better, the falcon finally responding to me and, no shit, but I felt a glow of achievement.
To see it soar, so high it was nigh invisible, then shaping itself like a missile, it dived at 200 mph to hit prey. I was chilled and filled with awe — awe in the biblical sense.
Keefer was recovering rapidly and I said so. He went,
“You tour with the Stones, you become bulletproof or roadkill.”
He lit a spliff, drew deep, said,
“Before the awful events at Altamont, Jagger was about to launch into ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’” he said.
“Strange shit happens whenever we do this song and, sure enough, all hell — Hell’s Angel — style — ensued.”
I said nothing. What was there to say?
He continued,
“The other day, first time in over twenty years, I played that cursed song.”
I laughed nervously, said,
“Come on, there’s no connection.”
A knock at the door.
Keefer said,
“See? I mentioned that bloody song.”
I grabbed the hurley, opened the door.
Now, of all the specters I might have anticipated, I never foresaw a
“Priest.”
Keefer roared,
“Jeez, how bad am I, you sent for the priest?”
Malachy,
Who breezed past me, stared at Keefer, demanded,
“Who are you?”
Keefer sat up, laughed, said,
“I think you have that assways, Padre. Who the fuck are you?”
Christ, the whole scene was so insane I wanted to laugh. I said,
“This is Father Malachy, bishop-elect of Galway.”
Malachy turned when he heard a sound from the falcon. He sneered,
“A bloody parrot. Who has a parrot?”
Keefer managed to stand, using my hurley as a crutch. I asked Malachy,
“How’d you find me?”
He looked at me with disdain, said,
“No one can hide from the Church.”
Keefer said,
“And no one can hide people better.”
Malachy sized up Keefer, summarized,
“I don’t much like your tone, laddie.”
Then he turned to me, snapped,
“Where’s your manners? Don’t you offer a guest a drink?”
Keefer said,
“Our last guests were lucky to get away alive.”
This might have increased in hostility save for a poster.
On the wall was Jagger, looking ethereal in what appeared to be a floaty white blouse. He looked very young. Malachy gasped, went
“Is that the Hyde Park concert for Brian Jones?”
Keefer was astonished, nodded yes, asked,
“You were there?”
Malachy, lost in happy recall, mumbled,
“Oh, yeah.”
I butted in,
“But you’re a priest — were/are.”
Malachy, still rapturous, said,
“I was a novice, visiting my aunt and my uncle. He was a Stones superfan.”
Keefer, delighted, asked,
“After that, you still went ahead and became a priest?”
A hint of stubborn admiration leaked over his tone.
Malachy, suddenly sad, said,
“I couldn’t disappoint my mam.”
Fuck, that mam was heartwrenching, from a grown man about to be a bishop.
Malachy soon dispelled that feeling by rounding on me.
“Not all of us bitterly disappointed their mothers.”
Keefer got a bottle of Maker’s Mark, poured liberal amounts, asked,
“A toast?”
Malachy said,
“To rock ’n’ roll.”
They drank.
I was feeling very much the odd man out at this Stones reunion. Malachy asked,
“What is Keith really like?”
Jesus.
I thought,
Enough already.
Keefer, in mighty form, disclosed,
“A bit of a pagan.”
Malachy was delighted, said,
“Sure, that’s what keeps my crowd in business.”
Even the falcon seemed to be cooing.
Keefer hobbled over to the bookcase, carefully slid out an album from his cherished vinyl collection, the Stones one with the cover of a pair of jeans, an actual zipper on the front — designed by Warhol.
Keefer, with reverence, intoned,
“One of the very few albums the entire band signed. Mick was tight on keeping merchandise closed down.”
He handed it to Malachy like the keys to a city. Malachy, full of devilment due to the booze and an actual good time, asked,
“What would happen if I pulled that zipper down?”
He was like a child shocking his own self.
I decided to rain heavily on this fucking parade, said,
“Ye’d cover it up, as usual.”
Keefer said,
“Phew, downer.”
I stared at Malachy, demanded,
“Why are you here?”
His face was that of a spoiled child whose ice cream has been swiped from him. He said,
“I’ve a good mind not to tell you.”
“Good,”
I said.
“So fuck off or out with it.”
A tense silence, then Keefer said, in his gee shucks voice,
“Man, come on, dude, what’s the gig?”
Malachy, still smarting, said,
“There’s a bounty on Taylor’s head.”
I asked,